Fifty years & Other Poems Part 6

Old Devil, when you come with horns and tail, With diabolic grin and crafty leer; I say, such bogey-man devices wholly fail To waken in my heart a single fear.

But when you wear a form I know so well, A form so human, yet so near divine; 'Tis then I fall beneath the magic of your spell, 'Tis then I know the vantage is not mine.

Ah! when you take your horns from off your head, And soft and fragrant hair is in their place; I must admit I fear the tangled path I tread When that dear head is laid against my face.

And at what time you change your baleful eyes For stars that melt into the gloom of night, All of my courage, my dear fellow, quickly flies; I know my chance is slim to win the fight.

And when, instead of charging down to wreck Me on a red-hot pitchfork in your hand, You throw a pair of slender arms about my neck, I dare not trust the ground on which I stand.

Whene'er in place of using patent wile, Or trying to frighten me with horrid grin, You tempt me with two crimson lips curved in a smile; Old Devil, I must really own, you win.

GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR

The snow has ceased its fluttering flight, The wind sunk to a whisper light, An ominous stillness fills the night, A pause--a hush.

At last, a sound that breaks the spell, Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell, That through the silence peal and swell, And roll, and rush.

What does this brazen tongue declare, That falling on the midnight air Brings to my heart a sense of care Akin to fright?

'Tis telling that the year is dead, The New Year come, the Old Year fled, Another leaf before me spread On which to write.

It tells the deeds that were not done, It tells of races never run, Of victories that were not won, Barriers unleaped.

It tells of many a squandered day, Of slighted gems and treasured clay, Of precious stores not laid away, Of fields unreaped.

And so the years go swiftly by, Each, coming, brings ambitions high, And each, departing, leaves a sigh Linked to the past.

Large resolutions, little deeds; Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds Until the blotted record reads, "Failure!" at last.

THE GHOST OF DEACON BROWN

In a backwoods town Lived Deacon Brown, And he was a miser old; He would trust no bank, So he dug, and sank In the ground a box of gold, Down deep in the ground a box of gold.

He hid his gold, As has been told, He remembered that he did it; But sad to say, On the very next day, He forgot just where he hid it: To find his gold he tried and tried Till he grew faint and sick, and died.

Then on each dark and gloomy night A form in phosph.o.r.escent white, A genuine hair-raising sight, Would wander through the town.

And as it slowly roamed around, With a spade it dug each foot of ground; So the folks about Said there was no doubt 'Twas the ghost of Deacon Brown.

Around the church This Ghost would search, And whenever it would see The pa.s.sers-by Take wings and fly It would laugh in ghostly glee, Hee, hee!--it would laugh in ghostly glee.

And so the town Went quickly down, For they said that it was haunted; And doors and gates, So the story states, Bore a notice, "Tenants wanted."

And the town is now for let, But the ghost is digging yet.

"LAZY"

Some men enjoy the constant strife Of days with work and worry rife, But that is not my dream of life: I think such men are crazy.

For me, a life with worries few, A job of nothing much to do, Just pelf enough to see me through: I fear that I am lazy.

On winter mornings cold and drear, When six o'clock alarms I hear, 'Tis then I love to s.h.i.+ft my ear, And hug my downy pillows.

When in the shade it's ninety-three, No job in town looks good to me, I'd rather loaf down by the sea, And watch the foaming billows.

Some people think the world's a school, Where labor is the only rule; But I'll not make myself a mule, And don't you ever doubt it.

I know that work may have its use, But still I feel that's no excuse For turning it into abuse; What do _you_ think about it?

Let others fume and sweat and boil, And scratch and dig for golden spoil, And live the life of work and toil, Their lives to labor giving.

But what is gold when life is sped, And life is short, as has been said, And we are such a long time dead, I'll spend my life in living.

OMAR

Old Omar, jolly sceptic, it may be That, after all, you found the magic key To life and all its mystery, and I Must own you have almost persuaded me.

DEEP IN THE QUIET WOOD

Are you bowed down in heart?

Do you but hear the clas.h.i.+ng discords and the din of life?

Then come away, come to the peaceful wood, Here bathe your soul in silence. Listen! Now, From out the palpitating solitude Do you not catch, yet faint, elusive strains?

They are above, around, within you, everywhere.

Silently listen! Clear, and still more clear, they come.

They bubble up in rippling notes, and swell in singing tones.

Now let your soul run the whole gamut of the wondrous scale Until, responsive to the tonic chord, It touches the diapason of G.o.d's grand cathedral organ, Filling earth for you with heavenly peace And holy harmonies.

VOLUPTAS

To chase a never-reached mirage Across the hot, white sand, And choke and die, while gazing on Its green and watered strand.